


Is It Too Much to Ask

by Lucterna



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut, plus size reader, trigger warning for language regarding self image and weight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: As children, you and Louis were definitely not friends - in fact, he'd been one of your chief tormentors.  When a friend phones you with an opportunity to take a job catering on the road, you're certain it's a bad idea, until the two of you get to know each other all over again.





	Is It Too Much to Ask

When Sarah had phoned you herself to ask if you’d take the job, you knew it was a bad idea. But she didn’t know anything about your history with one Louis Tomlinson, she just wanted someone qualified take take over a place on the boys’ touring catering for a little while. And as you’d recently snagged a bachelor’s degree in culinary arts, with a focus on baking and pastries, you had more credentials than anyone else she had to choose from. Plus, you were still young, more likely to handle the hustle and bustle better that came with all the traveling. You should have told her no, but it was a great opportunity to get out and see new places, to absorb knowledge of new and foreign foods with the cooks right there to teach you - besides, Louis Tomlinson was one-fifth of One Direction, boyband extraordinaire, and not likely to remember the chubby little girl he’d tormented for most of primary and secondary school.

He liked to chase you around the playground, often stood by smirking when his friends would sing awful tunes at you about being tubby. He’d laugh when they teased you with food, offering you morsels from their lunches as if you’d jump on the chance to gorge - nevermind that you hardly at ate all in school, because when they weren’t trying to force feed you more, they were taking what little you allowed yourself to grab off the line. By the time you made it to secondary school, you didn’t even go to lunch anymore; your mum packed a little brown bag for you everyday and you begged whatever teacher you had during lunch period to let you stay in the classroom and eat. Of course, by then, they’d grown out of the hellish taunting, but it didn’t stop sneers in the hallway; Louis had one friend in particular, a towering boy with long, greasy hair that loved jabbing you in the softest part of your sides whenever he’d pass you.

You remembered well the bruises that had blossomed the few times he’d done it while Louis was walking the hall with him, but you never told a soul, made up stupid stories about bumping bars and bleachers during gym when your mother caught sight of them once.

Sure, plenty of people might have told you to go singing to the nearest authority figure, but you knew if you told that it would only make everything that much worse. So you suffered through what you considered the least possible evil.

 

And then you’d left in year ten, when your father got a promotion at work requiring him to move. It wasn’t all glitz and glamour at your new school either, but at least Louis and his friends weren’t there, and that made it all the more peaceful.

So on your first day, you put on your best jeans and most comfortable sneakers, a nice white tank and a pink and black plaid overshirt on top; you try to make your hair look different, and even put on a smidge of make up, something you hadn’t touched until well into your culinary arts program. You’re as round and soft as ever, but you don’t hate your body as much for it as you used to, and certainly seeing Louis again after all these years isn’t going to make you start once more.

“You look really familiar,” Louis says, when Sarah introduces you to the boys.

“I’ve got one of those faces,” you laugh anxiously, letting him wrap his slender fingers around your hand and give it the barest of shakes. You hope he doesn’t ever remember you properly.

He looks less convinced than intrigued and he holds your hand a little too long, blue gaze as piercing as ever. You lament the fact he turned out so good looking - and successful to boot; where’s karma been in all this? Hopefully his other friends are all the useless layabouts they should have turned out to be. Unconsciously, you rub your side, as Louis lets your hand go. There’s nothing sinister behind those irises, just curiosity that you hope to never satisfy.

Despite the fact you can sometimes feel those eyes on you whenever you’re in a room or a bus or whatever together, the first couple of weeks go by so smoothly, you’re pretty sure the universe is trying to lure you into some kind of false sense of security. The rest of the band is lovely, Niall eats absolutely anything you make, and often forces the other boys to even when they’re not quite feeling it. If Harry and Liam had their way, you’d make nothing but Banoffee pie and Zayn is often fond of the vaguely Asian style green beans you make when you throw in with Sarah for dinners instead of dessert.

Louis’ favorite is something much simpler though, in fact, if you were making it at home for yourself you’d have nothing but instant pudding and a premade graham cracker crust, but on the road you’ve got all the trimmings to make the chocolate pie with whipped cream and chocolate chips on top from scratch.

“Little birdie told me you were makin’ that tonight,” Louis says with a little chuckle, as you finds you in the communal eating space, working your fingers into the buttery concoction that’ll become the crust.

For a second you freeze, but a short count to three and you’re back to work, offering Louis a small smile over your shoulder. “Well, we needed a break from the Banoffee, didn’t we?” you tease gently, knowing it’ll get back to Harry and Liam.

“Heavens, yes,” Louis grumbles dramatically and you are well aware of him closing in. That’s something you’re definitely not going to get used to - the boys are the touchy-feelyest bunch of people you’ve ever met. When they’re in the kitchen with you, inevitably one or more are hanging off your arms like you’re going to start dropping scraps into the floor. “Not that it isn’t lovely,” Louis continues, oblivious to the way you seize up all over again when his arm comes across your shoulders, “But I’m about sick of bananas.”

It takes more than a three count to relax this time, but if Louis notices, he doesn’t say anything, nor does he remove his arm, leaning in just enough to be close but not stop your hands from doing their work in the crust. You let out an anxious laugh, and glance over at him only to find he’s looking more intently at you than the dessert.

“Wh-what?” you ask, now quick to duck out of his grasp, spinning on your heel to go for the ingredients necessary to the filling.

Louis hangs in place a moment, before straightening and you can feel his eyes on your back as you move. You wish you couldn’t, all you can think of is the soft curves noticeable at your sides and through your back, the ones you can’t hide or the ones created by the cling of your - badly in need of replacement - bra. He doesn’t answer your question but for a small hum of consideration.

When you can’t pretend to gather anymore, you return to the spot you’d left him at the counter, where your mixing bowl and mixer are already waiting. Louis has his hands behind his back now, peering over the things you’ve brought with you.

Swallowing hard, suddenly much more aware of the curve to his jaw, the curious set of his lips, you mumble, “Do you want to help?”

Louis starts a bit, eyes slipping back up to yours. “I’m not much of a cook,” he says quickly, a faint tinge of red to his cheeks that has your stomach doing the weirdest of flutters.

“Good thing I am then,” you finally find your voice, venturing to tease over the unsettled thumping of your heart. “I’ll measure and you can pour, easy, right?”

You’re even more startled by the coy smile that turns up his own lips, “Ah, yeah, easy.”

The two of you spend the next few minutes side by side, Louis watching your hands carefully measure out the ingredients, his fingers brushing yours as he takes measuring spoons and cups and tips them over the mixing bowl’s edge. You discover that he hums softly when he’s concentrating, and you recognize the tune as a song that was popular when you two had just begun secondary school. A time or two you even let yourself pick it up, and Louis tilts his head once to share a secret smile with you.

If the pie seems to taste better this time, you pretend not to notice.

After a while, you find yourself hanging out with the guys every now and again including the backup band. You’re no good at video games, but you’re an enthusiastic cheerleader, and often you end up on Niall’s side of the room. Sometimes that means you’re perched on the arm of the couch beside him, once you were squished between him and Liam and you were pretty certain you’d never felt more like a lumpy roadblock in your life, but Niall’s the biggest cuddler of them all and when you’d tried to leave, he’d clung to you and pouted until he convinced Liam to do the same and you were stuck, blushing and hot between them until they relinquished you for the night.

Tonight, Niall’s icing up his knee, and there’s a footie game on the telly instead of the simulated one you’re used to watching. On one side he’s got their drummer, Josh, and you’re sitting on the other, texting your mom some of the pictures you’d taken on the journey so far and letting her know you’re doing well. She worries if you don’t check in. Everyone had gone out for dinner so you’d sort of got the night off, and then they’d all disappeared, leaving the three of you here; you don’t mind, by now you’re used to drowning out all the shouting.

It keeps you from noticing the new presence in the room though, at least, until he’s flopped down beside you, squishing you in against a flailing Niall. You almost get an elbow to the face, just before your head jerks around to see who’s sat down. Your body goes through this weird flux in temperature, growing simultaneously too hot and too cold by his proximity, the way Louis’ body presses into your side, wiry and slender against your plush arm. He gives you this grin, before he’s turning a much sterner look on your blond friend and the drummer.

“A Rovers’ game without me, Niall, honestly?!” he crows, as if the boy’s committed some kind of travesty. Without warning, Louis leans right across your thighs, so he can steal the beer that Niall’s been flailing around.

“Hey!” You attempt to sink into the couch to avoid the “fight” that ensues over said bottle.

You honestly hadn’t even noticed the teams playing, too engrossed in your texts to bother, but you can’t help looking up now, even if your vision is obscured by flailing, almost wrestling boys.

“Me knee!” Niall shouts, followed shortly by Louis’ cackling, “Can’t use that excuse forever, mate!”

Eventually though, they calm down and you all settle back, watching the game. At some point though, Josh leans forward around Niall and wonders aloud, with a call of your name, “Why aren’t you cheering the Rovers? You’re from Doncaster too, aren’t ya?”

Although Niall breaks out with some defense about not needing to like your home team, you can feel all the color draining out of your face at the sound of Louis’ voice behind you.

“You’re from Doncaster?” he wonders just as your head whips around.

You’re pretty sure there’s no blood left in your body at this point, much less your face, especially as you watch the realization dawn in his eyes while they hold yours. Why are your legs not moving? Why are you still sitting here? This is not a conversation you want to have.

“I knew you looked familiar! It is you!” he says, eyes going wide and round. He starts to open his mouth to say something else, but you don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear a damned word he has to say and you sure don’t want to have to hear him tell Niall and Josh how he knows you, knew you.

You finally find your feet underneath you and before anyone can ask or stop you, you’ve managed to power your way off the sofa and right out of the hotel room. The sudden burst of movement has you heaving as you get out the door and slam it behind you, but you don’t take the few seconds you ought to to catch your breath, you just keep heading for the elevators. Maybe you can breathe again when you get outside.

Louis is just far enough behind you that you make it into the elevator, but not so far that it closes without him. He shoves an arm in between the closing doors just in time, and while you gasp for breath, huddled against the corner, he shoves his way in before they can properly slide open for him.

“What in the world did you run away for?” he asks, but he sounds like he already knows the answer to his own question.

You draw up straight, shaking your head at first; your lungs are on fire and you don’t want to talk, anyway. But the elevator whirs softly, bouncing the two of you in uncomfortable silence until all you can say is, “Why would I want to stick around while you remember tormenting me half my life?” To say your tone is accusing is really an understatement; Louis actually flinches. You don’t know if you can trust the sudden, heavy guilt in his gaze or not.

“Torment- I never-” But he stops, frowning, obviously hurt by whatever expression’s on your face. You’re not sure what you look like, but you feel awful, your insides churning with anxiousness and bad memories. “Look, it-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Louis,” you say, and you slump back against the wall again. “I don’t- it doesn’t matter.”

“Seems like it does if we’re standin’ here like this,” he mutters softly.

You don’t know what to say and the elevator settles on the ground floor with a shake and a squeal.

As the doors slip open, Louis says, “Look, even if you don’t want to hear it, I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Your insides are still clenching painfully, but you can breathe again. Lips twisted in an uncomfortable frown, you tell him, “Me too.” You leave him on the elevator.

It’s not like no one notices the sudden tension in the air, the way you skirt Louis when he’s too close, the way his eyes drift uncomfortably away from you, but surprisingly enough, no one asks. You still cook for them, still make his favorite pie, but he doesn’t ask to help, and doesn’t seem to savor it like he did only days before. Honestly, you don’t get it. You can’t imagine he’s feeling this badly over realizing what a shitty influence he’d been in your past - you’ve never been anything to him, aside from a punching bag and now a cook, certainly not a friend. Hell, you might have felt the tug of moving on - finally - had Josh not gone and spilled the beans that night.

Coincidentally, you’re both alone in an elevator again, when you speak up, unable to take the weird tension and the moping anymore. “Louis,” you begin quietly, “Let’s just- forget it, okay? We’re grown ups. It’s done and over with.”

You’re not quite looking at him, but you can see him look up out the corner of your eye. He heaves out a hard sigh, “It isn’t though. I don’t think you really understand-”

A defensive chill goes through you, “Don’t understand what, Louis? That you and your friends made me miserable as a kid? That sometimes I still can’t look at-” But you stop and take a breath; you’re not about to admit too much. Not when you want it to go away.

Louis doesn’t look pleased you interrupted him, but he doesn’t even raise his voice to say, “That’s just it. My,” his shoulders actually slump with his breath on the way out, “it was my idiot friends. And don’t look at me like that, I mean it.”

You shut your mouth, lips pursed, your heart a madly fluttering thing behind your ribs.

“I’m not sayin’ I couldn’t have been better about it, I know I-” he licks his lips, “I know I laughed, but it- it’s so they wouldn’t tease me too.” His voice tapers off into mumbles, but not so badly that you can’t understand those last few words.

Your nose wrinkles up, “What in the world would they have to tease you about?”

His teeth grit, you can see the tightening in his jaw. Unexpectedly, it makes your heart race in a much different way, one you almost physically stamp your foot to keep down. And then the crimson begins to spill over his cheeks. “You’re not gonna believe me,” he begins, almost like he’s begging for a way out of admitting whatever he’s about to admit, but he continues anyway, “You never heard me tellin’ ‘em to lay off, yeah? Buncha twats we all were in primary anyway, but they were the worst and they were supposed to be my friends too, but when I told ‘em to leave ya alone, they turned on me, started accusin’ me of havin’ crush on ya.”

Well, if that’s not a kick to the stomach, you don’t know what is. You’d take a step back if there were any room on the elevator to do so. In fact, you almost run the second the doors swoosh open on your floor. But Louis is near the panel and he’s quick to press the button, jamming in another couple to keep you both raising higher.

You can’t help the venom in your voice when you say, “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Nothin’ worse than gettin’ accused of havin’ a crush on the fat girl? All my fault then, yeah?”

Louis actually smacks a hand out against the wall of the elevator, “Listen, alright! It’s not that at all!”

“Then what is it, Louis?” you demand; the sound of his palm hitting the metal wall was startling, as was the brief shake that followed, but it’s clearly all the violence he’s got, and you’re not really scared anyway. “What else could it possibly-”

“They were right!”

You’re stunned into silence. The elevator whooshes softly upwards, ticking off another floor, and the two of you stare at one another. His lips are turned down, the flush gone from his infuriatingly handsome face, but his eyes are still bright, flashing flecks of blue so striking against the golden hue of his skin. With your own wide, startled eyes, you’re sure you’re gaping, have to actually force your mouth closed.

“What?”

But Louis continues like you hadn’t asked, “They were right and I’m a bleedin’ idiot. Didn’t matter that you’re… that you’re-”

“Fat,” you supply, aiming for deadpan, but your voice comes out awkward and miserable.

“Whatever! That didn’t matter, I just didn’t want ‘em knowing I liked you, and I’m a moron, thought they’d stop if I kept tellin’ them to lay off.”

“It just got worse,” you tell him softly.

He gives you a pained expression, “I know, I know it did, but you were gone before I got my head straight enough to really come out with it.”

The first really strained and awkward silence comes over the two of you as the elevator shuffles along. It’s honestly a miracle that no one else seems to need this one, as you continue your silent journey towards the top of the building. You lean back against the gently wobbling wall, sliding your arms around yourself as best you can, ignoring the way your fingers sink into your own flesh and shutting your eyes on the sloping line your body cuts on the way to the floor.

At the top, the elevator dings yet again, and the doors slide open with a rush of air. Neither you nor Louis step off, not until he says, “C’mon,” softly.

Daring to open your eyes, you find his hand underneath your gaze, wrist lined with the knotted rope tattoo that you’d found yourself eyeing a time or two when he’d help you cook. You hesitate, gaze rolling up his inked arm to meet his eyes. He looks expectant, but in a way that’ll still allow you to turn back.

Swallowing, hoping you’re not the world’s biggest - hah! - fool right now, you unfold your arms to slide your hand into his. He leads you off the elevator and the two of you walk hand in hand down the dimly lit hallway, toward the door that leads out and up to the roof. Outside, the sky is slowly turning purple, the sun a sinking ball of flame to the west; it’s all very picturesque, with a moderate breeze slipping through your hair. The roof itself is flat, obviously made to entertain, with sturdy fencing all around the border. Louis doesn’t lead you there, though your feet shuffle closer to a gathering of tables and umbrellas.

For a few minutes the two of you are silent, taking in the view, the fragrant air, the faraway sounds of the city below. Louis’ arms twitch with some unseen urge, but he keeps them at his sides, letting out a tiny sigh before he speaks again.

“I dunno if I’d have ever told you I fancied you, but I wanted them to leave you be,” he admits quietly, now curling one arm across his chest. “I always told ‘em, just…”

“Definitely not soon enough for me to hear,” you say, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. Your mind and body feel incongruous; you want to say you forgive him, but your stomach is in so many knots.

“Yeah,” he says, and he gives a small shrug, not dismissive, but there’s nothing else he can say. “And I should have, I know that. You don’t have to forgive me or anything, but I do want you to know I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t seem like ‘sorry’ is a word Louis throws around much, and maybe you’re still reeling from the confession in the elevator, but you swallow and tell him, “No, it’s… I do, I mean, I forgive you.” Honestly, saying the words aloud, realizing they’re true - it’s a weight off your shoulders you never knew you were carrying. You may never forgive his friends, but you can forgive him.

An unexpected smile breaks out on his face, and that arm you’d seen twitching before lifts so he can tuck a listing lock of hair behind your ear. A little tremor races through you, watching his lips curve, feeling the warm callused fingertips just briefly brushing your scalp.

“If I said I still fancied you-”

“Louis,” your chest tightens so painfully you’re having thoughts of bolting again, stepping just outside his reach. “Don’t, you… you don’t. You just feel bad.” You don’t want a pity party, don’t want him thinking you need the affection because you’ve been denied it; he’s had plenty time to move on and fancy other girls, and you’re perfectly fine with the past tense attached to whatever crush he had on you in school.

With an exasperated sigh, he closes in again, just inside your bubble of comfort, though he keeps his hands to himself. “I don’t, well… I do feel bad, but that’s got nothin’ to do with feelin’ like this again. You think I helped cook because I just liked it?” His grin is wide and boyish, almost teasing, but in a way that makes the heat rise in your cheeks again. “You’re pretty cute, you know that? And you look even more so when you’re cookin’, got this little wrinkle between your brows, and your tongue pokes out.” A moment of heat crosses his face when he mentions your tongue, eyes dropping to your lips, which are pursed as you try not to feel flattered or embarrassed he was looking that closely at you.

“That’s just above the shoulders,” you mumble, and you remember all the times you’ve joked that you look great from the neck up.

Before you can wrap your arms around yourself again, Louis’ got your wrists in his hands and he steps in so close that your bodies touch. With his grasp, he gently pulls your arms around his waist and he says with his forehead against yours, while you try to catch your breath, “I like what’s below them too. Always have. I know it’s… I know it’s a sore spot, you probably don’t want me to say you’re soft and round, but it’s just…” He gives a helpless shrug and with your arms around him, he ventures to slip his around you, elbows on your shoulders, hands weaving gently into the edges of your hair.

“It’s just fat is what it is.” You don’t know what you’re protesting; this close Louis is even more of a vision, his body hard against the soft contours of your front. His lean arms feel stronger than they’ve ever looked and he smells like the expensive cologne you’ve watched him spray on every morning.

“No, that-”

“You have to call it what it is,” you protest, your heart pounding, your arms nearly falling away from him.

“No, no, I don’t want to call it that,” he says, tipping his head back to look at you fiercely, “You make it sound like that’s all you are, just a lump and not the sweet girl I actually brave the kitchen for. So, I won’t call you that right now, not until it’s just a word, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says suddenly, softly, already leaning in. You have but a space of moments to stop him, and you think that you should, but you forget to the second his lips touch yours.

It’s a sweet kiss, his lips pressing in just enough you can feel the places he sometimes bites them, and his hands gently cup the sides of your neck as he leans in against you. Your eyes slip shut like some old cliche, but you really can’t help it; you love kissing, you’ve missed kissing - you’ve had a couple boyfriends and honestly that was the only part that was ever as rewarding as it ought to have been - and kissing Louis is strange, unexpected, but so very pleasant. His mouth works gently at yours until his thumbs against your cheeks make your lips part and then you can taste him as he licks his way inside your mouth, tongue tangling up with yours only to pull it between his lips momentarily. Something white hot coils up in your belly and you find yourself groaning into the gesture.

Tipping his head back so you can both get some air, Louis murmurs, “I want… I want to do more than just kiss you.”

You swallow hard, the taste of him still on the tip of your tongue, and you’re not sure what is and isn’t the best idea at this point, but you’re tingling. “Um, not… roof, not on the roof,” you finally manage; you shouldn’t even be kissing him up here.

“I can take care of that,” he grins quite mischievously at you, and before you can say another word, his hand is covering yours, tugging you back inside with him. The two of you stumble back the way you came, until you’re nestled in the elevator once more.

Inside, he gently backs you up into the corner of the box, cupping your face in his hands again and kissing you senseless. Your own fingers twist into his t-shirt, pulling him in closer and as his mouth deviates from yours to nip along your jaw until he finds that spot just under your ear, you let out a little noise of pleasure and Louis presses in the length of your body, proving it’s not just his chest and abdomen that are hard against you. You can feel heat clamoring all through your limbs, curling in your middle and racing south. As if he can see that path, Louis’ hand follows it, down along your neck as he sucks the lobe of your ear in between his lips and teeth, running down over your middle and across your hip until it dips back to find the space between your thighs. With a desperate little sound that you smother in his shoulder, you press against the fingers rubbing you through your jeans.

A tangle of hands and mouths and sounds no one in the hall should have to bear, the two of you eventually stumble out of the elevator and onto the floor where his room is. You break apart so he can figure out which end of the hall to go to and soon the door to his room is shutting behind you. With a squeak, your back hits it, though the noise is soon swallowed up by Louis all over again. Now that the outside world is no longer privy to the way his hands skim your body, his mouth touching down on your collarbone to nibble just until the skin is red, he pauses just long enough to tug his shirt up over his head. You get a little jolt seeing the tanned expanse of his torso, the words curling up underneath his collarbones just over the ‘78’.

Mouth dry, though the rest of you is decidedly not, you stammer out, “Louis, I don’t- I don’t know.”

His lips touch your forehead, gentle, encouraging. “Whatever you want, love, I’ll stop if that’s it…”

You don’t remember laying your hands on him, but you can feel him warm and solid under your palms, his heart pounding hard enough to thump against your fingertips. His eyes are on yours, occasionally slipping to your mouth before he drags them back up for your answer. Your knuckles curl in, lightly dragging your nails along his chest and goosebumps spring up behind the motion, marring the black ink on his skin.

You don’t really want to stop, and you don’t want to give him a chance to come to his senses; you don’t want to worry if “soft and round” is as pleasant exposed to the chilly air conditioning as it is tucked under your old Green Day t-shirt. Without answering him, you glance down, hooking your hands in your shirt and tugging it up over your head. You wish you had more cute bras and pairs of underwear, but he’ll have to work with the sixty quid white, appliqued monstrosity helping you defy gravity and the comfiest pair of light blue Hanes you own.

His breath catches, “Wait, wait…” and you almost start to pull everything up again, but his hands are covering yours and he’s saying, “I want to do that, let me.” Of course, the shirt’s already on the floor and the cold air is taking its toll on your heated body, but Louis takes over at your jeans, fingers eager on the fastenings, his hands and lips on your thighs as he sinks to the floor in front of you and slips them down. You shudder in his wake, sure that all your extremities have turned to jelly.

From his spot on the floor, he reaches up again, tugging on the waist of your panties and urging you to spread your legs enough to let him take those too. Your breath is stuttering in your chest, but you manage, shoes and jeans gone, the panties soon joining them. His mouth is a constant, light pressure on the way back up, fingers running across the center of you just before he gets to his feet again, and as you shiver from the linger touches, he reaches around behind you to undo the bra as well. You’re covered in goosebumps, nerves alight from all the soft touches, which only continue as more skin is revealed. With you completely bare before him, Louis takes a moment to feast with his eyes.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, “you look even better than I imagined, c’mere,” and he’s pulling you in against him, running his hands over every inch of you that he can manage, even as his denim covered hips push into yours.

With a shuddering breath, unable to keep up with the sensation of his hands, you reach between the two of you to get at those jeans still left, feeling him hard through the tent his cock’s created. He curses a little, thrusting against you, and it’s all the encouragement you need, if the hands running up underneath your breasts and squeezing weren’t enough. You take a very similar path down to your knees, unable to stop yourself from leaning in now, getting your lips around one taut nipple and then running your mouth down the center of his lean torso all the way to his navel and dark, wiry hairs that disappear into his boxer briefs. His hand finds your hair as you nuzzle your way into that path, tonguing the skin and savoring the heady scent of him before you manage to yank down all the clothing he has left, exposing him to the same chilly air around the two of you.

Taking him into your mouth just seems like the natural thing to do when his cock’s standing at such attention, mere centimeters from your face and the sound he makes when your lips close over the head, foreskin and all, is a music all its own. You tongue your way into the soft fold of skin around the slick and leaking head of him to the sensation of his fingers nearly fisting in your hair, his breath coming in little pants of your name, and you suck on him gently, not too far, just enough he can curse about how hot your mouth is around him, enough he can choke on air when you couple that with running your fingers around his balls and tracing the tips up to work at the base of him. You know you’re good at this anyway, can remember a handful of sleepless nights beside a boyfriend who wanted nothing more than your lips stretched around his cock, who often left you hot and aching for something more than your own fingers. Yeah, you’re an expert.

But with Louis’ voice echoing in your ears, your name dissolving into pitched whimpers, you don’t really care about it anymore. Not until he’s tugging on your hair though, begging, “I’m not- not gonna last like that, love, come up here, c’mon,” and you’re almost uncertain, but you very nearly crawl your way back up his body, leaving him wet and hard between the two of you. Hand still tangled in your hair, he smothers you in fresh kisses, uses his grip to tug you with him to the unmade hotel bed behind the two of you. When he goes down, he tries to pull you atop him, but you roll to the side and he simply comes with you, nestling his aching cock between your thighs and rutting up against you anyway, breathing praise against your neck.

Here, he asks, petting your hair from your face, “You’re still… still sure, right?”

You actually gulp, but give him a shaky affirmation, made into a long and mewling sound as his fingers find the center of you. Though he’s only delving into your most intimate depths, it feels like he’s mapping the whole of you, thumb pushing up against your clit as he works three fingers in, angling them on the way out, pumping and stretching you until you beg him to fill you up even more, or mercifully let you come.

That mischievously chuckle you’ve gotten used to hearing snake past his lips comes teetering out of him, and in answer to your pleas, he eases up with his hand, gets both of them on your sides and angles up on his knees while he turns you underneath him. You flush, coming face to face with the pillows as he works you into the position he wants you, and you fist your hands into the sheets as he guides himself along your wet slit, dipping in between the folds to make shallow thrusts against your clit until he’s guiding himself back up to thrust hilt deep into you. You cry out, head falling forward, hair spilling down like a halo across the pillows and Louis wraps his hands around the fronts of your thighs as he begins bucking his hips to yours.

“Fuck, fuck, do you know… do you,” he pants across your back, bowing over you, “do you know how fucking amazing you are? So fucking- you feel so fucking good, knew you would, always did, so fucking gorgeous you are.”

No one’s ever said anything like that to you during sex, hell, not during the waking hours either and you’re almost afraid you’re going to cry on him, can feel your body seizing up in the dual urge to weep and climax. The words keep coming, whispers against your spine and into the back of your neck, his hands slipping up the length of your body, running over curves you thought unnatural, but that feel like every other electric nerve ending underneath his touch, and the more sound you make the more he praises you, the faster his hips snap against your backside, driving him deeper and harder into you. You call out for him, for release, anything, and you’re finally obliged when his fingertips sink into the soft folds of your center, slip sliding around your clit as he drives into you, and then you’re clenching, almost sobbing as you come undone and he is literally seconds after you, clutching you to him with his other arm, still fingering the hard, oversensitive nub as the two of you ride out your orgasm.

When you’re a hot, panting heap atop his bedclothes, Louis makes sure you’re facing him, running shaky hands back through your hair and leaning in for kisses that are still so surprisingly sweet. You’re sure you couldn’t blush anymore if you tried, pink all the way to your toes from the activity and tender touches. Tentatively, you wiggle closer to him, letting out a sigh that’s more relief than anything when he gathers your slick bodies together for cuddles. He nuzzles into your shoulder, kisses the damp skin there.

“You…” he begins softly, uncertainly, “You should never feel any less than perfect, whether I… or anyone else says it. You just are, perfectly lovely, okay?”

That timid burn in your eyes is back, but manage a few giggles instead, pretty sure he’s only drunk on sex and spouting nonsense. Feels nice to hear it anyway. “Okay, Louis…”

“I mean it,” he says, and he tries for stern, but he’s pouting and it falls to pieces. “I hope you’ll believe me someday.”

As his eyes slip shut and his nose touches your shoulder again, you murmur quietly, close to his ear with tears really beading at the corners of your eyes, “Me too, Louis. Me too.”


End file.
